


Change

by mahbecks



Category: Dragon Age II, Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Banter, Crossover, Flirting, Humor, Salty Men are Salty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-17
Updated: 2016-12-17
Packaged: 2018-09-09 06:40:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8879857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mahbecks/pseuds/mahbecks
Summary: Geralt and Ciri are hunting a fierce werewolf and its pack in Skellige when Ciri panics and transports them......to Thedas. Kirkwall, specifically, where they meet Garrett Hawke and his crew of... well, Geralt isn't exactly sure what their group constitutes, but he is sure that he doesn't like Hawke, or the way he looks at Ciri.A Secret Santa fic :)





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Fen_Assan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fen_Assan/gifts).



> Prompted for me by the wonderful Fen_Assan for the TMB Secret Santa Fic Exchange 2016. If you haven't read her stories yet, please go check them out! They are beautifully written, and you will not be disappointed :)

“At least it wasn’t a zeugl.”

Geralt snorted, shooting the young woman across from him a sardonic look. Ciri was grinning at him winningly, trying to find some sort of silver lining to their current predicament. He appreciated the attempt, even it if did nothing to lift his mood. 

“At least it wasn’t a zeugl,” he repeated in grudging agreement. 

“How’s that bite?” she asked, switching to focus on his wounds. 

“Had worse,” he replied, looking down at his arm. The wolf’s teeth had torn deep into the leather gauntlet, gouging holes into his skin. But the armor had done its job, protecting him from the worst of it. He would clean it out soon and bandage it; the enhanced healing of a witcher’s body would do the rest. 

He looked up then, eyeing Ciri’s torn, bloody shirt dubiously. “And you?” he asked. “Anything serious?”

“Just a scratch,” she said, though she winced when she twisted her neck to look down at the gash in her shoulder. 

“Looks like more than a scratch,” Geralt pointed out. 

“Well, it’s not!”

He backed off, knowing a losing argument when he saw it. 

Cautiously, he looked around. The landscape was unfamiliar, rocky and gray in the moonlight. He could smell the tang of the sea in the air, though he couldn’t see any water. In the distance, the walls of a city were just visible to his eyes, though he didn’t recognize anything that would give him a clue to their location. 

“So!” Ciri pushed herself to her feet, planting her hands on her hips as she too began to survey the area. “Now that we have established that our injuries are minor, we should attempt to find where we are!”

Geralt rose as well. “Any ideas?” he asked. 

“Not at all.”

He sighed. Of course not.

It had all happened so fast. 

He and Ciri had been in Skellige, wanting to get away from the war-torn continent after their run-in with the Wild Hunt. They’d been taking what jobs they could find and living off the land - not a bad life, all things considered. It didn’t pay as well as plotting the assassination of kings or dispatching beasts for Nilfgaard, but it was a hell of a lot less troublesome. He’d had enough trouble to last a lifetime. 

It had also rid him of Dandelion’s not-altogether unwanted but entirely too noisome company for a while. The bard detested the isles, called them a “backwards midden-heap, with appalling fashion sense and no appreciation for the nuances of fine poetry”. Not in the presence of any of the islanders, of course. He wasn’t brave enough for that.

A week back, they had accepted their most challenging contract to date: a werewolf, one of the fearsome Ulfhedinn the isles were infamous for. They had tracked the beast to the caves on the isle of Undvik and found its fetid lair deep in the craggy mountains. A plan had been formed, and they had waited until the night of a full moon to make their attack. 

It had been a foul, nasty creature, ancient by lycanthropic standards. Crafty, it had led them on a chase throughout a network of damp caves that reeked of rotting flesh and pungent mushrooms. But they had had the advantage of youth and endurance on their side, and eventually, they wore the beast down. 

And then it had called for reinforcements.

Nearly a hundred wolves had to have filed into the cave. Geralt had never seen so many at once; he knew that werewolves often led wolf packs, but one that large? It was unheard of. Still, he’d not flinched in the face of danger. He’d faced worse odds than that and survived, and Ciri was as capable a warrior as he’d ever seen. 

Surprisingly, it had been she who had panicked. Perhaps the angry yell he’d unleashed when the wolf bit him was what had alarmed her. She needn’t have worried - he’d kicked the animal away and cut its throat before it had time to gloat on the wound it had scored. Still, perhaps she had mistaken his anger for unease. 

Before he had known what was happening, he’d been sucked into a portal. It had been green, the color of the magic Ciri’s Elder Blood granted her, and unnaturally hot. It made the teleportation spells used by mages seem almost welcoming, much as he hated to admit it. But the uncomfortable, prickling sensation had lasted but a moment, and then he had fallen to the ground with a dull thud, Ciri right behind him. 

He hadn’t the faintest idea where they were.

“We’d best set off for that city,” Ciri said, drawing him from his ruminations. “Hopefully someone there will tell us where we are.” She set off for the road, not looking back to see if he would follow her. 

But of course, he did.

It took them the better part of an hour to reach the city walls, and then another fifteen minutes of Ciri smiling at the guards to let them enter the gate after nightfall. The pain from the wolf’s bite had steadily lessened over the course of their trek, a sure sign that the mutagens within his body were already beginning to work on the injury. Ciri, he could tell, wasn’t so lucky; she was favoring the side where she’d been injured, keeping that arm tucked close to her body so that it wasn’t jostled. Her wound wasn’t healing as his was, for she had never undergone the trials. What wounds she sustained in battle, she kept. 

“Hey.”

She turned back towards him, lifting an eyebrow curiously. 

“We need to find an inn for the night,” Geralt said, “get that wound cleaned.” 

“It’s fine, Geralt,” Ciri said, rolling her eyes. 

“Won’t be when it gets infected.”

“Oh, alright,” she relented, again planting herself firmly before him with her hands on her hips. She reminded him of Yennefer when she did that; it was a bit unsettling. “We’ll find an inn. Any place in particular catch your fancy?” 

Geralt looked around. They were standing in a small plaza, square buildings all around them. Despite the lateness of the hour, people were milling about, buying food and drink, playing at cards, and chatting amongst themselves. Surprisingly, none of them spared he or Ciri a second glance. That was more than passing odd - normally, people went out of their way to avoid him. Either that, or they openly spat at him. 

Strange.

A two-story building across the way caught his eye. A sign hung out from the side of the wall, a man hanging from a noose emblazoned upon it. The letters beneath the figure were unfamiliar to him, but he could recognize a tavern when he saw it. 

“There,” he said, pointing to the building. “We’ll see if they have a room available.”

Ciri had to suppress a snicker at the sight. “Charming sign,” she commented.

“Not the worst I’ve seen,” he replied. “Stayed at a place in Novigrad once called the Maiden’s Head. And they didn’t mean her face.”

She paused right before the door. “Geralt,” she said.

“Hmm?”

“What if they don’t speak the same language as we do?” 

Shit. He’d not thought of that. Ciri was probably right to be concerned, too, considering the foreign script on the sign. 

He shrugged. “Flash ‘em some coins,” he replied. “Gold tends to get the point across.”

She nodded. “Better than flashing my tits.”

“Ciri-”

“Come, Geralt! Let’s see what ale they’re serving!”

*

It was a good night to be the Champion of Kirkwall. 

Hawke leaned back in his chair, grinning across the table at Varric. The dwarf was scowling at him over his ale, shuffling his cards back into a deck after a hard loss. “Don’t gloat,” he warned. “It’s not a good look on you.”

“Nonsense, Varric,” Hawke said, snorting. “ _ Every _ look is good on me.”

“How about humility?”

He scoffed. “Now that would just be a loss of a handsome grin,” he replied, reaching for his tankard of ale. After a long pull, he turned to Isabela, sitting on his right. “What do you think, Isabela? Should I try to appear more humble?”

“Winning suits you, Hawke,” the Rivaini woman said with a smirk. “And don’t worry about it too much - Varric just hates to lose.”

“Who doesn’t?” Varric retorted.

“I don’t mind one way or another,” Merrill piped up. “It’s just a game, isn’t it?”

“Yes, Varric, it’s just a game,” Hawke added, unable to resist taunting his friend. 

“That isn’t to mention that you already win two of every three rounds,” Fenris said. “One loss should not be too difficult to accept.”

“I can’t believe that you all are ganging up on me!” Varric said, mock-offended. He raised an eyebrow at Hawke. “Did you put them up to this?”

Hawke raised his hands, wildly proclaiming his innocence. “I would  _ never. _ ”

The dwarf snorted before standing, hanging his head in defeat. “I’m going to get another ale,” he said. “Anyone want anything while I’m up?”

Hawke, Isabela, and Fenris all voiced their assent while Merrill and Anders declined. The latter was no doubt remembering the last time they had all played Wicked Grace together, when he’d gotten thoroughly sauced and started (badly) singing ribald Fereldan drinking songs at the top of his lungs. He’d been chased from the Hanged Man by the unappreciative masses; Hawke and Carver had had to step in and sort things out to ensure their friend made it through the night with his vocal cords intact. 

Merrill, of course, was simply being practical; as she had pointed out earlier, they were planning an expedition to hunt down some bandits on the Wounded Coast on the morrow. Aveline had asked them for their help; the City Guard was unable to spare more men to hunt down the renegades, what with the tensions between the Templars and mages being so high and all. Naturally, it was up to their merry band of misfits to see to things. And of course it wouldn’t do to chase down reprobates while nursing a hangover. 

Hawke went to take another swig of ale only to find his tankard mournfully empty. He peered over at the busy bar attempting to find Varric, but the room was too hazy with smoke and full of taller, sweaty bodies to see the dwarf. He hoped his friend would return soon; having an empty cup in a tavern was a terrible, terrible thing. 

The door to the Hanged Man swung open then, allowing a gust of cool, night air into the room. It blew through the room like a sigh, easing the warm, dry heat that was the tavern’s norm on a busy night. Hawke glanced over at the door, wondering if it was Carver finally come to show his face. Instead, two newcomers stood on the threshold, looking rather uncertain.

The man was tall, with shoulder-length white hair and a beard to match. A nasty scar ran from one side of his forehead to the cheekbone below, barely missing his eye. He was dressed in well-made armor, with two swords strapped to his back and a strange, wolf’s-head medallion hung round his throat.  _ Odd, _ Hawke thought to himself.  _ Why carry two swords? Is one not enough?  _ More peculiar still were the golden, slit-pupiled eyes with which the newcomer surveyed the room.  _ Like a cat’s. _

The woman was less armored, dressed in leather pants and a plain white shirt. The garment was torn at the shoulder, and bloody from a long, red, half-healed gash. Her hair was similarly pale, though more ashen than white, and she too had a long, curving scar across her face. But her eyes were a brilliant shade of green, not golden, and she bore only one sword on her back. 

She was also one of the most beautiful women Hawke had ever seen. And he wasn’t the only one to notice - already, the woman was drawing stares from men and women alike, including his companions. 

“Mmmmm.” Beside him, Isabela purred appreciatively. “And who do we have here?”

“Two swords,” Fenris murmured. “Is it in case one of them breaks?”

That was… practical, Hawke supposed. But didn’t one get in the way of the other? When he was drawing it and everything? Hawke wouldn’t know - he carried a long knife at his belt, but that hardly got in the way of the staff he used during fights. He used it more for carving meat than cutting down enemies. 

“I wonder how they got those scars,” Merrill mused. 

“I’m going to go ask,” Isabela announced. 

“Don’t accost them,” Hawke warned.

Isabela chuckled. “Hawke, when I have ever accosted anyone?”

“This morning,” he replied automatically. 

“And last night,” Fenris added. 

Isabela turned to the elf and winked mischievously. “If you think  _ that _ was an example of accosting, just wait until later tonight,” she said. 

Fenris blandly raised an eyebrow. “Is that a threat?” he asked. “Or a promise?”

The pirate grinned and leaned forward over the table, exposing even more of her ample bosom. “Both.” 

Hawke, sitting in between his two friends, suddenly found himself feeling quite awkward. He cleared his throat and abruptly stood. Neither of them noticed, so intent were they upon each other.  _ Just as well, _ he supposed - now it gave him time to go and introduce himself to the newcomers!

They were still standing by the door, deep in murmured conversation. Neither seemed to notice Hawke as he approached, even when he stopped a scant three feet from them. He cleared his throat again, smiling when he saw that he’d finally gotten their attention. “Hello!” he said amiably. 

The man blinked at him, his expression inscrutable. He was younger than his white hair suggested, Hawke noticed, for at this distance, he could see that the man’s face was unlined. “Hi,” he said. His voice was rough, almost gravelly. 

“You… aren’t from around these parts, are you?” Hawke continued, ignoring the man’s brevity. 

This time, it was the woman who answered. “Is it that obvious?” she asked, stepping forward with a smile. 

“Just a little,” he replied. “But I also know a lot of people in this city - and most of the Hanged Man’s regulars - so your appearance has me more than passing curious.”

“What do you want?” the man asked suddenly. 

“Geralt!”

The man - Geralt? - raised an eyebrow at the woman. She sighed and turned back to Hawke. “What my friend here means to ask is, can we help you?” 

Just then, a warm arm draped itself over Hawke’s shoulder. He barely had time to look to his side before Isabela began speaking, openly leering at the ashen-haired girl. “Oh, I can think of  _ several _ ways you can help me, kitten,” she said. Her eyes flicked over to the man, shamelessly ogling him. “You can come too, handsome.”

Hawke sighed. “Could you wait until I’ve introduced myself before you start propositioning them, Izzy?” he huffed.

The pirate pouted up at him. “It’s not my fault that you were taking so long,” she said. She turned back to the newcomers. “Isabela, Captain of the  _ Siren’s Call, _ ” she announced, sticking out her hand. 

The ashen-haired woman took it with a grin. “Ciri,” she said. “My name is Ciri.” She nodded her head back at the man. “And this is Geralt.”

“Your lover?” Isabela guessed. 

“Her father.” The man was positively bristling now.

“... ah.”

“Yes, I can see the resemblance,” Hawke said, amused at Isabela’s quick deflation at the realization that there would be no shenanigans involving the three of them that night. 

“Well, he’s more my adoptive father, really,” Ciri quickly added. “We’re not actually related by blood. But… well, it’s quite complicated.” She turned to Hawke. “And you are?”

Hawke stuck his leg out and performed a silly little bow. “Garrett Hawke, at your service!” he said. 

“Nice to meet you,” Geralt said dryly. He turned to Ciri, and added in a lower voice, “We need to find the innkeep, see about getting a room.”

“Not so fast,” Ciri replied. “Perhaps they can help us.”

“I doubt it.”

“Are you in need of assistance?” Hawke asked, cocking his head to one side. “I’d be happy to help, if I can. It just wouldn’t do for me to let a pretty lady in need go unassisted! And her father, of course,” he quickly added, seeing the scowl on Geralt’s face. 

“You should take him up on that,” Isabela added, relinquishing her hold on Hawke as she turned to the bar. “They don’t call him the Champion for nothing!” She peered around in the haze. “Now, where is Varric with those drinks…?” She wandered off then, leaving the three of them alone again. 

“Champion?” Ciri repeated. 

“Yes,” Hawke said, screwing his face up in embarrassment. “Silly title, really. All I did was get the Qunari to leave Kirkwall. And defeat the Arishok in single combat. Then they slapped me with the title and gave me  _ responsibilities, _ of all things _. _ But I suppose that's what I get for sticking my nose into things.”

“Kirkwall?” Geralt asked. “Is that this city?”

Hawke had to laugh. “You came to Kirkwall without knowing it was Kirkwall?” he asked. “I’m sorry, my friend. That’s a cruel joke.”

“What’s wrong with Kirkwall?” Ciri asked.

“What  _ isn’t _ wrong with Kirkwall?”

“And who leads the city?” Geralt asked, ignoring Hawke’s retort. “Is there a mayor, governor?”

“Well, there is the Viscount,” Hawke replied, “but Dumar’s rather useless at the best of times. The Templars are the real power in the city, led by Knight-Commander Meredith.”

“Templars?” 

Hawke blinked. “...yes?” Had anything he had said been unclear?

“Who are the Templars?”

“...just where  _ exactly _ are you from?”

Ciri chuckled a bit nervously. “It’s… a long story.”

*

“So let me see if I have this correct. You’re telling me that you’re the descendent of a woman named Falka, whose blood possessed special powers.”

Ciri nodded. “Correct.”

“And those special powers include the ability to move through space and time.”

“Right.”

“You typically don’t use these powers because their magical signature alerts people who might want to harm you to your presence.”

“Yes.”

“But sometimes, in moments of extreme duress, you use these powers to save you and your companions from harm. The two of you were in such a situation before, and you used your powers to transport you across worlds here.” 

“I think that about covers it,” Ciri replied.

None of Hawke’s friends, gathered around a table in the dwarf’s permanent quarters on the second floor, spoke for a moment. And then Varric spoke for them all with a rather eloquent, “Well, shit.”

Geralt thought it comforting to know that despite the jump between worlds, there were still familiar things to be found in this new place. The existence of dwarves, elves, and magic, for one thing. Neither Hawke nor his friends had balked at Ciri’s explanation for their arrival. For the most part, they had sat there quietly, nodding at certain parts and expressing the appropriate amount of surprise and concern for others. He didn’t want to think about what would have happened had they needed to explain magic to people who didn’t know it existed. 

...could you even explain that? He wasn’t sure. 

It was also reassuring to discover that Hawke’s group of… whatever they were - for Geralt had yet to decide what, exactly, this group constituted - were decent people. Upon meeting them, Varric, the dwarf, had immediately suggested that they go upstairs to his private rooms to talk. He had even managed to secure a set of rooms for the witchers, quite impressive considering how busy the common room was. It seemed that everyone knew him and was happy to do as he asked. In that manner, the dwarf seemed to resemble Dandelion. Also similar to the bard was his inordinate amount of inane questions, but Geralt was willing to humor him - for the moment - due to his help. 

He wasn’t entirely sure what to make of the two elves, Fenris and Merrill. Their close association with humans implied that they weren’t Scoia’tael, but he was reluctant to group them with the Aen Seidhe. For one thing, there was the slight differences in appearance - the smaller, lithe frames, the intricate tattoos on their faces, and the pointed, canine teeth all marked them as different from the elves he had known back in his world. For another, they just didn’t seem like the Aen Seidhe he had met. It was… hard to explain.

Fenris was clearly some sort of warrior, the kind who had been trained from a very early age. He had a fluidity to his movements that only skilled swordmasters possessed. Well, swordmasters and witchers. But none of Hawke's companions had recognized any of the monsters he or Ciri had mentioned thus far - in fact, there seemed a dearth of deadly creatures in this world, save spirits and demons, apparently. He found it likely there were no witchers here at all.

Still, Geralt liked Fenris - he didn’t talk too much. 

Merrill was a mage, and that at least placed her in a familiar category. But she was unlike any sorceress Geralt had ever met. She was no Yennefer of Vengerberg, no Philippa Eilhart, intent on securing power and prosperity for herself. Instead, she was small, innocent, and almost childlike, for all that her delicate appearance seemed to mask a fierce intelligence. She was… kind, yes, that was the word, her comments friendly and inquisitive. 

No, if anyone reminded him of the sorceresses he knew, it was the pirate. Isabela. Even now, she was studying him the way  cat studied cream. Whenever he made eye contact with her, she would shoot him a smirk that, he had to admit, made him feel a little bit better about his rugged looks. 

Of course, she was also shooting Ciri that same sort of look, and that made him feel intensely uncomfortable. 

Also sending out particularly flirtatious signals was the Champion, Hawke. Despite what many people seemed to think, Geralt wasn’t an idiot. He could put two and two together. And he could tell that the so-called Champion of Kirkwall was fawning over Ciri like a puppy. Worse still was that she seemed to reciprocate the attraction, if the way she was leaning towards him was any indication. 

Geralt scowled at the notion - they weren’t here to flirt. They were here to see if these people could help them return to Skellige. And that was it. 

“So then, how are you to return to this… Skellige?” It was the other mage, Anders, who had spoken. He stumbled over the unfamiliar word, though not from inebriation. Indeed, he and Merrill were the only people in the room who weren’t drinking. Instead of smelling of smoke and ale, he smelled of cat, antiseptic, and something vaguely… herbal. Geralt couldn’t place it. “Can you transport yourself back?”

“I should be able to,” Ciri replied, taking her attention away from Hawke. “Once I’ve recovered, that is. The magic takes a lot out of me.” 

“What sort of spell is it?” the mage continued, curious. “I haven’t heard of a transportation spell. Have you, Hawke? Merrill?”

“I seem to recall reading a book about some Tevinter mages attempting it,” Varric offered. 

“They tried, but they weren’t successful,” Hawke clarified. “Or at least, that’s what my father told me.” 

“And thank the Maker for that, or we’d have magisters everywhere,” Isabela said, snorting. Fenris nodded in agreement. 

“What’s wrong with magisters?” Ciri asked. 

“In short? Blood magic.”

Geralt blinked. Blood magic? He’d never heard of such a thing. Judging from Ciri’s expression, she hadn’t either. 

“Blood magic?” she repeated. 

“Magic that draws on blood for power,” Merrill explained. “Some people believe that that makes it evil.”

Fenris jerked upright in his chair. “ _ Some _ people?” he demanded. “When the power of the mages of the Imperium is built on the blood of thousands?” 

Hawke chuckled nervously. “It’s a touchy subject,” he said to Ciri, attempting to defuse the situation. “Blood magic is technically outlawed by the Chantry, but mages in Tevinter - where Fenris is from - are infamous for using it behind closed doors for all sorts of nefarious purposes, of course. But many elves don’t follow the rules of the Chantry, and don’t view it as negatively as humans do.” 

“The Chantry?” Geralt asked. “That like your church?”

Isabela laughed. “Something like that,” she said. “Bunch of upright asses, ruining everyone’s fun.”

“Rules are made for a reason.”

“Yes,” the pirate agreed. “To be broken.”

“Alright, alright, children, settle down.” Varric clapped his hands together once. “Let’s not scare off the guests. We can talk about politics some other time. Preferably never.” He turned to Geralt and Ciri. “How long do you think you two will be staying in Kirkwall?”

Ciri looked to Geralt, and then over to the dwarf. “Perhaps a week,” she replied.

“Not too long, then. Well, you have rooms down the hall, so that’s taken care of. And don’t worry about the bill - Corff owes me.” 

“My thanks,” Geralt said. 

“You’re welcome to keep us company, if you’d like,” Hawke added. He grinned at Ciri. “I’ll never say no to having another pretty face in the party.”

“Well, we can’t have a less than attractive party, can we?” Ciri asked. 

“Perish the thought!”

“I thought we were already attractive,” Anders said, frowning. 

“Some of us, Anders, some of us,” Isabela said, patting his hand. 

“We’re heading out to the Wounded Coast tomorrow to hunt some bandits that have been attacking travelers,” Hawke continued. Geralt noted - with a bit of annoyance - that the man was more or less speaking exclusively to Ciri at this point. “High as the need for a pretty group of people is, we  _ could _ always use help with the fighting, if you’d care to join us.”

“Ciri’s wounded,” Geralt objected flatly, as if that settled matters. 

“So were you!” Ciri retorted. She shot him a dark look over Hawke’s shoulder. 

He ignored it. “I heal fast,” he said, shrugging. 

“If it’s a matter of healing, perhaps I can be of assistance,” Anders offered. “I am a healer, after all.” 

“With magic?” Ciri asked. 

“Well, I’ve never been particularly good with stitches,” he replied with a grin, “but I can give it a go if you want.” 

“I am going to get more wine,” Fenris said suddenly, standing. 

“Geralt, why don’t you go too, bring us something,” Ciri said distractedly, eyes focused on the faint blue glow surrounding Anders’ hands - his magic, Geralt presumed. 

The witcher snorted, seeing the thinly veiled attempt at ridding her of him for what it was. But he agreed anyways, following the elf out the door after being forced to take more coin from Varric.  _ Because you don’t have any sovereigns, _ the dwarf had said. 

Whatever. Geralt wasn’t going to turn down free beer.

“Hawke is a good man,” Fenris said suddenly, half-turning to Geralt in the narrow stairway. 

“Hmm.”

“He won’t let anyone take advantage of you while you are here,” the elf continued. 

Geralt raised an eyebrow. “I look like the type of person who gets taken advantage of a lot?” he asked. 

“No,” Fenris replied, “but your daughter looks like one who attracts a lot of attention. A lot of  _ unwanted _ attention.” 

“Like from your friends?”

“Isabela? She is harmless. She would never do anything without permission.” 

“Wasn’t her I was referring to.”

“The tall mage is also harmless, though he talks too much for me.”

“I meant Hawke.”

Fenris stopped, and turned to face Geralt fully. “Hawke?” he repeated, confused. “Hawke would never harm you or Ciri.”

“Uh-huh. Doesn’t mean he doesn’t want something else.”

Fenris shrugged. “It did not appear as if his attention was unwanted,” he pointed out. 

Geralt scowled. “Let’s just get the drinks.”

*

“So, you want to try and get as many matching sets as possible,” Hawke explained, showing Ciri the four suits of card. “There are serpents, angels, songs, and knights. Everyone keeps drawing cards until someone draws the Angel of Death.” He pointed to that card next. “Once that has been drawn, whatever cards you have in your hand are the cards you win or lose by.” 

“What if I draw a card that I don’t want?” Ciri asked.

“You can discard them,” Hawke replied. 

She nodded, mulling over the rules one final time. “It seems simple enough,” she said after a moment. 

He chuckled. “It is simple - until you add in the fact that everyone cheats.”

“ _ Everyone _ ?” she asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Everyone.”

“Even you, Hawke?”

“Well, not me, of course. I am the exception to the norm, always following the rules!”

Across the table, Isabela snorted. “Don’t listen to him, Ciri,” she said. “The only reason he doesn’t cheat is because he’s terrible at it.”

“Is that so?” Ciri grinned at him. 

“Unfortunately,” he replied, grimacing. “I can’t manage sleight of hand with any sort of subtlety. Hands are too big.” He waggled one of his hands for emphasis.

“I imagine they’re good for other things though,” she replied, her tone nonchalant but her eyes twinkling mischievously. “They give you a better grip on your staff, I imagine.” 

_ Sweet Maker! _ How did one reply to  _ that _ ?

“Indeed,” he choked. 

Across the table, Isabela snorted at his discomfiture. 

The return of Fenris and Geralt saved him. The two white-haired men entered the room with a bit of difficulty for all the tankards and bottles they were carrying. Isabela quickly shoved some books off a nearby table to make room. 

“Hey!” Varric cried. “What did those books do to you?”

The pirate shrugged. “They were in the way,” she said simply. 

“I’ll remember that the next time I find your spare clothes shoved in my bag.”

“You’d make me go naked?”

“You’d like it.”

“Mmm, probably.”

“Geralt, are you playing?” 

The man looked over to them at Ciri’s question, his strange yellow eyes examining the cards - and how close the two of them were sitting. Unconsciously, Hawke moved a little farther away. 

“What game is that?” 

Ciri eagerly launched into an explanation, with slight corrections from the rest of them at times. Geralt responded with the occasional nod or grunt, and finally nodded at the end of the instructions. He took a seat opposite Ciri. Was it so he had the best view of Hawke? 

Somehow, Hawke thought that was indeed the case.

“So are you in?”

“I’m in.”

*

Geralt was doing his damnedest to make sure Hawke was uncomfortable. e kept his attention on the other man the entirety of the game - what was its name, again? Grace, something? - instead of studying his cards. His face, emotionless at the best of times, was fixed in a flat, cold stare meant to cause discomfort. And it was working, too, if Hawke’s awkward, fidgety body language was an indication. 

Too easy. 

He had to suppress a snicker. What a night this was turning out to be!

“Your turn, Hawke,” Fenris announced suddenly, nudging the man beside him with his boot. 

“Ah, yes.” The mage looked down at his cards with scrutiny, eyes flicking between each one in turn. He selected one and began to place it face down on the table. “I think I’ll play this one.”

“That one?” Geralt demanded.

Hawke paused just as the card touched the table. “...yes?”

“I wouldn’t.”

“How do you know what it is?”

Geralt shrugged. “I know things.”

Hawke hesitated, and then drew the card back into his hand. “In that case, I think I’ll play this one.” He selected another and began to place it face down.

Geralt shook his head, his eyes never leaving Hawke’s face, and made a slight chiding noise. “Bad move.”

“Oh, come on, now you’re just being melodramatic,” Hawke snapped.

“Am I?” Geralt asked, curious if the other would call his bluff.

He didn’t.

With a huff, Hawke again withdrew the card to his hand. He sullenly drew a card from the deck and then ended his turn. 

Much,  _ much _ too easy.

Ciri was glaring at him from across the top of her cards, but he paid her no heed. They were playing a game, after all, and he needed to keep up his concentration. 

The rest of the game went by smoothly. Hawke’s final hand was so bad that he threw his cards on the table in disgust, much to Isabela (and Geralt’s) amusement. The witcher himself had a decent hand of three snakes and two songs. Still, he was beaten by Varric, who managed to have four of a kind. 

“Varric, I think you cheated,” Ciri announced as Anders shuffled the cards for the next round.

“Who, me?” Varric shook his head. “No, it’s Rivaini here you have to watch out for. She keeps cards for any situation up her sleeves.”

“Varric, I haven’t  _ got _ any sleeves,” Isabela sighed. “Honestly, your attempts to tarnish my reputation are so transparent.”

“Watch her, Bird,” the dwarf warned. “Like a hawk.”

“Bird?” Ciri repeated, cocking her head to one side.

“Varric likes to nickname people,” Merrill explained. “He has one for all of us. I’m Daisy.”

“And I’m Blondie,” Anders offered.

“Why ‘Bird’?”

The dwarf shrugged. “Can’t really say,” he replied. “Just seems to suit you. That’s how nicknames go, you know - you can’t think about them too much. You just go by what fits.” 

“It does fit,” Ciri grinned. “My name, Cirilla, is the common tongue’s version of the word ‘swallow’ in the Elder Speech. Are you sure you’ve never been to my world, Varric?”

The dwarf chuckled. “I think I’d know if I had.”  

She turned to Hawke then, curious. “And who are you?” she asked. 

He shrugged. “He just calls me Hawke,” he replied. He grinned and added, “I guess I need no nickname.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” Varric said. “I just haven’t found one that sticks.”

“I  _ am _ indescribable.”

“A few words come to mind,” Geralt offered. 

“Geralt!”

The room was quiet for a moment, all eyes on Ciri to see what she would do next. She had stood up, her hands balled into fists at her side. Geralt eyed her coolly, also curious as to her response. He wasn’t trying to be over-protective; Ciri could, and would, make her own decisions. But he found that he couldn’t help it. 

He  _ really _ didn’t like Hawke.

“Wait,” Anders said suddenly, drawing the attention to him. “If you’re her father, why does she call you by your given name?” 

“It’s the only name I have,” Geralt replied, unsure of how else to respond.

“But why not ‘Father’ or ‘Da’?” the mage persisted. “Or ‘Daddy’?”

Just like that, the tension in the air evaporated. Ciri burst out laughing at the question, unable to answer Anders’ most likely serious question. It took her several long moments to compose herself, and she had to sit down lest she fall in a fit of giggles.

“Was it something I said?” Anders asked, bewildered.

“Oh, no, it’s just -” Ciri broke off her sentence to wipe tears from her ears “- the notion of anyone calling Geralt ‘ _ Daddy’ _ \- it’s too much, really!”

“I kind of like it,” Isabela suggested.

“Don’t make it weird, Rivaini.”

“Too late,” Geralt muttered. 

He eased up on Hawke for the next few games, though he still kept a watchful eye on the man’s hands (they stayed above the table). Ciri seemed to notice this, for she grew noticeably warmer to him, even sharing a few stories from their adventures around the Northern Realms, much to the amusement of all. Hawke and his friends then reciprocated, telling stories of their adventures together. Some were amusing - such as the time Varric discovered he’d accidentally bought a brothel - and others were more somber - such as the death of Hawke’s sister, Bethany, and the plight of the mages in Kirkwall. 

By the time the alcohol had run dry, everyone was tired and altogether too willing to stay the night on Varric’s floor. The dwarf muttered about the inconvenience of it all, but Geralt could tell that he meant nothing of it. He and Ciri retired to their own rooms shortly after - alone, Geralt was pleased to see.

“You worry too much,” Ciri announced as she opened the door to her room.

“Hmm?”

“I can take care of myself.”

“I never said you couldn’t.”

“Oh, Geralt. Yes, you did. Not in so many words, but you did.”

“Mmm.”

“Never change,” she murmured, and then gave him a brief hug before stepping into her room for the night. 

_ Witchers can’t change,  _ he wanted to say, but he kept the words to himself. They seemed too final, too absolute. Were he to voice them, it didn’t seem like he could take them back. And maybe that admission, in and of itself, was a sign that he could change. 

He made a noncommittal noise and stepped into his room, pushing the absent thought away. 

It was much too philosophical for this hour of night. 

*

“What’s the second sword for?”

Geralt looked over at Hawke, surprised the other man was actually engaging him in conversation. After all he’d put the other through last night, he hadn’t thought the Champion would speak to him at all. But he was attempting to be nicer today - for Ciri’s sake. So he answered the question.

“Witchers hunt monsters,” he replied. “But monsters aren’t like men. Regular steel won’t harm them. You have to use a silver blade.” 

“Does that not make the blade weak?” Fenris asked. “Silver isn’t as durable as steel.”

“No, but it’s not about the strength of the weapon,” Geralt explained. “Silver hurts monsters; think of it like acid on exposed skin.” 

“Huh. And what are the glowing runes down the middle of the blade?” 

“Enchanted runes to give the blade abilities.” 

“Ask a dumb question, get a dumb answer.” This time, it was the very tall human newcomer that had spoken. Geralt didn’t remember his name, but he thought he was Hawke’s brother. Hawke’s  _ younger _ brother, despite topping the Champion by a good half a head.

“Oh, shove it, Carver.”

“You shove it!” 

“It wasn’t a stupid question!”

“You have that enchanter living with you, and you had to ask about enchanted runes? Dumb.” 

“It could have been different!”

“It wasn’t, though, was it?”

The two continued to bicker back and forth, throwing half-hearted insults back and forth the whole time.

“Do they do this often?” Geralt asked Fenris. 

“All the time,” the elf replied, bemused. 

Now the two siblings were openly scrapping, Hawke attempting to get his arm around Carver’s - yes, that was his name! - neck. But Carver was much too tall for that sort of prank to work, and was easily evading his brother’s attacks, laughing all the while. 

“I can’t tell if they’re mad or having fun,” Geralt remarked.

“Probably both,” Fenris allowed. “They really do care for one another.”

“Bitch! You bit me!”

“It’s what you get for being a jerk!”

Fenris sighed. “...even if they have an odd way of showing it.”

“Can it, you two,” Varric said from the front of the group. “We’re almost there. Do you want to alert every bandit in the area to our location?” 

“They’ve probably already heard us,” Carver said, snorting. “Garrett’s so  _ damn _ loud when he’s squealing like a chicken.”

“Squealing?  _ Squealing _ ? Need I remind everyone of the time you sat on that shoddy bench and got a splinter in your ass?”

“Please don’t,” Varric said. 

“You’re right - I shouldn’t tell such stories in front a lady.” He motioned to Ciri, who was watching the scene unfold with a barely contained smirk. 

“Oh, don’t stop on my account,” she said. 

“Quiet!” Anders suddenly hissed. “We’re in range!”

The group quieted at once, mirth and annoyance fading instantly as the group prepared for battle. Geralt quietly drew his steel sword, swinging it around in his hand a few times in preparation. Beside him, Fenris did the same. The mages drew their staffs from behind their backs, magic making the wood glow, Varric put a bolt in his crossbow, and Isabela readied her twin daggers. 

“Varric, how many?” Hawke murmured.

“Twenty, twenty-five,” the dwarf replied after a quick count. “No mages, it looks like.”

“Bows?”

“Got a couple, near the back.” 

Hawke nodded. “Got it,” he said. Looking around at the group, he fixed them all with a grin. “Let’s try not to die today, shall we?”

And with that, he leapt into battle, running down the slope towards the bandit camp with a startling ferocity. The rest of them followed, Geralt and Ciri included, taking the brigands by surprise. It was an organized sort of chaos, swords and daggers flashing into the early morning sunlight, magic weaving around the battlefield in both defensive and offensive spells. 

Geralt didn’t think as he moved. As he so often did, he fell into a sort of trance while fighting, dodging this blow, parrying that one, and then lunging in swiftly for a clean, powerful attack. Ciri naturally moved to his side during the course of the action, protecting his flank even as he protected hers. 

It was over very quickly. Hawke’s band fought well; they were accustomed to this sort of task then. He decided then that his first hypothesis - that they were a small band of mercenaries - was inaccurate. They were more like vigilantes, dispensing justice as they saw fit in the absence of an adequate law force. And now he and Ciri were de facto members of the troupe. 

_ What would Vesemir say about this, _ he mused.  _ Witchers turned peacekeepers. _

He would never know, of course. He was no longer able to ask the senior witcher what he thought about things.  _ Just as well. He’d probably have me read some book about a witcher’s place,  _ he concluded, fondly remembering the man who had taught him so much over the long winters at Kaer Morhen. 

“Something on your mind?” Ciri asked quietly, sidling up to him as Hawke’s friends prepared to burn the bandits’ bodies. 

“Wonder what Vesemir would say about us turning into vigilantes,” he muttered. 

As soon as he spoke the old witcher’s name, he saw Ciri grimace. She regretted his death, he knew; a part of her still blamed herself for his passing. Geralt had tried to tell her that Vesemir would had done the same for any of them, and that he’d given his life to allow her to survive. But he knew that guilt was a hard burden to bear, even for supposedly emotionless witchers and their wards.

“Probably a lecture on a witcher’s proper place,” she said finally. 

Geralt chuckled. “I thought so too,” he replied.

“He did love his lectures…” She paused for a moment, and then turned to face Geralt. “Geralt, there’s something I need to tell you.”

“You want to stay here a while?”

Ciri blinked. “How did you know?” she demanded, frowning at him.

He snorted. “Think you can hide things like that from me?” he asked wryly. 

She huffed, pushing a stray hair out of her face in irritation. “Well, you could at least act surprised,” she muttered. She paused again, and then continued. “I think I can do a lot of good here. You heard what Hawke said about the troubles the mages are facing from these Templars.”

“I did. Means it’ll be dangerous for people like you and me too.” 

“I know. But if we can help them…” She trailed off, looking off at the others. They had moved all of the bodies into a pile now, and one of the mages had set them on fire. The stench was awful, acrid against Geralt’s nose. 

Ciri turned back towards him. “You helped Triss save the mages in Novigrad,” she pointed out. “How is this any different?”

He shrugged. “Guess it’s not,” he said. He looked at her askance. “You sure that’s the only reason you want to stay?”

She coolly raised an eyebrow. “It’s certainly the most important reason, and that’s all I’m going to say about it,” she snapped.

_ Altogether too much like Yennefer.  _

“Mmm.” Geralt crossed his arms over his chest. He was quiet for several minutes, watching the flames. He could Ciri was watching him anxiously, awaiting his response. “How long you planning on staying?”

“I don’t know yet,” she replied simply. “Until the job is done, perhaps.” She hesitated then, an unformed question on the tip of her tongue.

“Go on. Spit it out.”

“I’d like you to stay with me.”

Geralt blinked. “This isn’t my world,” he said. 

“It’s not that different from the one we left,” she said quickly. “And you must admit, it’s a nice change of pace.” She paused. “We only just found each other, Geralt, only just escaped the Wild Hunt. I’d like to stay together for a while, if we can.”

Well, he didn’t disagree with her there.  

“And I know that there aren’t any monsters to slay, but there is other work that you could do.”

“Such as?”

“Well, Hawke said that he’s always getting odd requests for help,” she said. “There’s plenty of jobs that need doing.”

“So I’d be an errand boy.”

“Only if you wanted to be.”

“...Yennefer won’t be pleased.”

“Yennefer will wait.” 

“...we still talking about the same Yennefer here?”

Ciri sighed. “She will, for you. Even if she complains about it and never lets you forget it.”

“Mmm.”

“...so… is that a grunt of acceptance?”

“Ciri…”

She was giving him that look. He recognized it well from when she was younger; she would turn to him with those huge green eyes, asking for something that she wasn’t sure she would get. And though he was supposedly emotionless, unable to form complicated relationships with other people, he’d always felt compelled to help her when she looked at him that way. Maybe it was her Elder Blood. Maybe it was that they really were connected by Destiny. But it had always been hard to tell her no. 

And harder still to let her go.

“Alright. I’ll stay. But not too long.”

“Thank you, Geralt!” She surprised him with a fierce, happy hug. “You won’t regret this!” 

“Uh-huh. That’s what they all say.”

She drew back, her smile transformed into an impish grin. 

“What?” he demanded suspiciously. “What’s that look for?”

“You do know that this means you’ll have to be nice to Hawke, right?”

He scowled. 

“... Shit.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading, and Happy Holidays!


End file.
